WARNING: I will be using this (as of late, untouched) blog to air a lot of my postpartum depression grievances, hoping it will help. Whether or not you continue to read is now up to you.
Wow. I got here FAST this time. I think after CC was born, the ugly monster with a capital D didn't really show up for at least 6 weeks or so. And with Daphne, there was a lot of apprehension... but I don't think it really hit until about 5 weeks.
JD isn't even 3 weeks old until Tuesday.
But this morning, while my entire family attended church, I relaxed on the couch with a sleeping baby boy, laying sedentary on my chest. He had recently puked all of the contents of his breakfast all over me, yet, miraculously, had slept through both the vomiting and the cleaning. Then not even an hour later, without warning, he woke, suddenly, with a scream.
Usually I can get him right back to sleep, but that wasn't going to happen this morning for some reason. He just fought me, fought the pacifier, kicking me right where my fresh incision is still tender.
And instead of being the mother I know I CAN be; instead of being the loving, patient mother I work daily at being with my older, more "controllable" children - I just lost it. I put him in his swing, which he protested, and I yelled at him. I yelled at a helpless, newborn, dependent-upon-me-for-survival-and-love, tiny baby. I yelled at him to "deal for 5 minutes so I can take a bloody shower since I smell like a sour dairy farm!"
I cried in the shower. HARD. I literally sat on the floor of my shower, water pouring all over me like some sort of campy after-school special, and sobbed. They were angry tears, and sad tears, and tears of self-pity & self-loathing. Oh, and you can trust that there was some definite yelling at God, as there is every time I go through this. I'm sure He can take it... not sure He deserves it. But He's plenty used to it, undoubtedly.
I got out of the shower, nearly hyperventilating, and wondering what good my drama was doing me if no one was even around to witness the spectacle. I could hear JD, strapped safely in his swing, screaming like he was being tortured. So dramatic. Like his father.
Obviously.
I quickly got dressed and ran down to him just in time to catch him mid-red-faced, breathless silence. I picked him up just as the tension officially broke and the piercing cry nearly deafened me. I felt bad.
I guess.
I love him. I do. I really do love him, as I love all of my children. But I don't like him yet, and that sickens me, literally, physically to my core. It takes longer each time for me to actually "like" my babies. It took 6 months with Malia, 8 with CC, and almost 10 with Daphne.
I have my 1st appointment on Wednesday with a therapist. I didn't go to therapy after Daphne. I definitely should have. I went after CC and it worked wonders. I also have a prescription for something called "Wellbutrin" pinned up in my kitchen. The nurse gave it to me last week after dubbing me a little "more weepy" than her average postpartum patients. I didn't want Prozac. It did weird things to me. It took away my sad, but it also took my happy.
Looks like I may need to visit the pharmacy today.
This is going to be a long year.....
